Perchance
by Droewyn
Summary: Victor wakes to the sound of Yuri apparently crying.


Victor didn't have any problem with sleeping in strange bedrooms. You couldn't, when you were a competitive skater on the circuit. Not if you didn't want to see your chance at a medal vanish in a sleep-deprived blur to worse skaters with better self-care habits. Hotel bedrooms, airplanes, green rooms, wherever; you learned to take your rest whenever you could. And if there was one thing that five-time World Champion Victor Nikiforov excelled at – _well_. Two things, obviously, maybe _three_ if he was feeling particularly precious – it was taking his rest.

Except for tonight, Victor realized, as he found himself dragged against his will back into consciousness. Tonight, something wasn't right. _What..?_

Yuri. Yuri was whimpering, a dark shape in the other bed, curled away from him and facing the wall. The bedding was halfway on the floor, kicked away sometime in the night.

 _Oh, no! Is he crying? What happened, what's wrong?_ Sleep forgotten, Victor gracelessly extracted himself from his usual blanket burrito. "Yuri," he whispered as he rose, reaching out to grasp Yuri's shoulder. "Yuri, are you–"

As if reacting to the sound of Victor's voice, the younger man flopped onto his back. Yuri's face was mercifully dry, and his eyelashes wrote dark crescents on his cheeks. His shirt had ridden up to expose his navel, and his boxer shorts were…

Oh. _Oh_.

Yuri mewled, the meaning of the soft sound now entirely unmistakable, and Victor froze, arm still outstretched. Heat flooded his face, not to mention parts of him that were significantly more opinionated on the subject of beautiful young dreamers. Yuri's lips were parted slightly. So sweet. So very kissable.

Panic-stricken, Victor all but flung himself away from his student's bed. _Student. Yes, Victor-you-_ idiot _, remember that you are a responsible skating coach now and that Yuri is your protégé and that you have no right to do any of the things you've dreamed of doing since–_

He'd find an all-night gym. A coffee bar. A laundromat. _Anything_ to put some space between himself and this ridiculous, perfect man who equated physical love with food but blazed like a flame on the ice – and who wouldn't meet Victor's eyes off of it. What genius thought it would be funny to give Yuri the _Eros_ theme again? _Victor-you-idiot, indeed. Plisetsky would laugh himself sick if he knew._

Hand on the doorknob. Two steps from escape.

 _"Victor."_

Hands flying to his mouth to cover his gasp, Victor whirled around in shock. _That isn't, he didn't, I_ couldn't _have..!_ He sagged his weight against the door frame, the legs that landed a thousand quads turned suddenly to jelly. "Y-yuri?" It was a whisper. It was a prayer.

"Victor, _please_ ," Yuri moaned again, and Victor was lost.

He didn't consciously cross the room; he was just somehow _there_ , running trembling fingers through dark tangles and scattering kisses like rose petals down a pale neck. Yuri smelled of soap, of hotel sheets, of an indefinable sweetness that was uniquely his own. His breathing was heavier now though he dreamed on, his expression beatific as his body responded to Victor's ministrations.

 _Yuri's sleeping, he doesn't know what's happening!_ The tattered shreds of Victor's conscience wailed at him, to little avail. A man enthralled, Victor could no more have halted himself at that moment than he could have flown. He turned his attention lower now, hands sliding beneath Yuri's shirt, an explorer charting paradise with every smooth abdominal curve and (he discovered to his delight) secret ticklish spot.

It was as he began to drift downward still, unable to ignore those straining boxers any longer, that the warm body beneath him suddenly stiffened. _"Victor?"_ Yuri squeaked. Horrified, overwhelmed with a hot rush of shame, Victor forced himself to look up, to meet wide brown eyes that glittered with shock and confusion, and a dawning comprehension.

" _Vot derr'mo._ Yuri, I, I'm so sorry, I–"

 _"Victor,"_ Yuri's husky voice cut off his frantic babbling. "If this is real? If I am not dreaming this right now?" He used an arm to lever his body up enough to stare down at his erstwhile lover. His gaze was intense and unreadable. "Then, for the love of God, Victor, _don't you dare fucking stop._ "

Victor gaped at him. Yuri growled in exasperation and reached out with his free hand. Steady fingers briefly caressed Victor's cheek before gripping his hair and pulling him insistently downward. Victor made a wondering noise that was half moan and half sob before finally yielding to the inevitable and unwrapping Katsuki Yuri like the precious gift that he was.

Head nestled in the crook of his lover's arm, Yuri languidly toyed with Victor's silvery hair. "I've loved you forever," he confessed, "almost since the very first day I started skating. But you? How? _Why_?" His expression was serene, but a fragile uncertainty shaded his words. Not for the first time, Victor wondered how Celestino had mismanaged Yuri so very _badly_. Nerves were every skater's constant companion, but for one of the world's top competitors to so profoundly lack a sense of self-worth bordered on the criminal.

"You think you're so unlovable? Well, as much as I would enjoy listing in great detail every last wonderful thing that I adore about the magnificent Yuri," Victor smirked briefly, then sobered. "We… we have to talk about this. About tonight. Yuri, I'm so sorry."

"I'm not," Yuri said thoughtfully, "But… I think that maybe you should be. Victor, what _happened_?"

Victor sighed. "You were dreaming, at least at first. You called out for me."

Yuri flushed scarlet. "Oh. And you..?"

"Had been waiting for you to say my name like _that_ for so long that I thought I might die if I never heard it again. But that's no excuse for what I did! I… I breached your trust. If you weren't… _you_ , I could have…" Victor trailed off and scrubbed roughly at his eyes with the heel of his free hand. "Yuri, if I ever hurt you that way I think I really would die. If you want, I'll–"

"Finish that sentence by threatening to leave, and I'll make you pay for it," Yuri said fiercely, sitting up abruptly and turning to face Victor, clasping his hands tight. "I'll, I'll track you to Russia and I'll sing outside your window all night long for a month. Whatever else you think of me, Victor, I _can't_ sing. And I'll make Yurio help; he'll do it just to get rid of me. And I'll quit skating forever, and I'll eat katsudon until I'm as big as a house, and, and–" He was openly crying now. They both were.

"Oh, _Yuri_." Not knowing what else to do, Victor opened his arms. Yuri fell into them, and the two men found a different kind of release in one another's embrace.

What would happen next? That… would have to be decided on more than two hours' sleep on a too-small hotel mattress.


End file.
